He swears he knew you before the whole world did.

Before the sold-out venues. Before the award show speeches. Before your face was on billboards and your voice filled the bones of the city.

You were just a boy with a guitar and too many feelings. And Timothée? He was the one in the second row, heart in his throat, watching you fall in love with the mic stand.

Now, things are louder.

Your mornings start with coffee and interviews, your nights end with greenroom kisses and his hoodie around your shoulders. But somehow, he’s still the same — all soft hands and long looks, head tilted slightly like he’s always trying to memorize you better.

He comes to rehearsals when he can. Sits quiet in the back, baseball cap low, mouthing along to the lyrics like muscle memory.

You tease him for it.

“You’re obsessed,” you say, catching his eye in the mirror.

He shrugs. “You’re not wrong.”

Sometimes, he sings under his breath when you’re writing. Harmonizes absentmindedly while curled up on your hotel bed, flipping through your lyric notebook like it’s scripture. When you ask if he likes something, he always answers honestly — but his favorite thing is still just your voice.

And when the crowd screams your name, when the lights flash bright enough to make you feel more spotlight than skin, he finds you backstage. Hands on your jaw. Kisses soft like grounding.

“Proud of you,” he murmurs against your temple.

And after, when your voice is gone and the adrenaline has faded and you’re both a little sweaty and half-drunk on the moment — he’ll lean into your space, eyes all stars, and whisper:

“I’d still love you if you never wrote another song.”

But you do. Because somehow, being with him feels like melody.